Ilda nodded absently. "Her name's Ingride. She's thirteen. And sick since she was seven." She made a face - both at the thought of her poor little sister, and because she'd noticed that her gloved hands were now covered in sticky slime. Reflexively, she started to wipe her hands against her pants, while continuing, "The healers don't know what's wrong with her. We've done everything we've been told, and everything we could think of, but... nothing."

For several seconds there was just the sound of the waves and the other volunteers chattering on the beach; she didn't say anything more, turning her head away from Yato as she struggled against the emotions that were trying to escape her. Then she straightened, looking back at him and smiling sheepishly. She held out her hands in a helpless gesture. "Ew, I'm stinky now. Sorry, I'm awfully scatterbrained today."